"Hold on!" Frank Walsh cried. "These gentlemen are going to lunch with me."
Small turned and fixed Walsh with a glare. "I am going to do what I please, Mr. Walsh," he said coldly. "If I want to go to lunch I go to lunch; if I don't that's something else again."
"Oh, I've got lots of time," Walsh explained. "I
was just reminding you, that's all. Wasserbauer's got a few good specialties on his bill-of-fare that don't improve with waiting."
"All right," Mr. Small said. "If that's the case go ahead and have your lunch. I won't detain you none."
He put his hand on Abe's shoulder, and the little procession passed into the store with Abe and Mr. Small in the van, while Frank Walsh constituted a solitary rear-guard. He sat disconsolately on a pile of piece goods as the four others went into the show-room.
"Sit down, Mr. Small," Abe said genially. "Mr. Berkowitz, take that easy chair."
Then Morris produced the "gilt-edged" cigars from the safe, and they all lit up.
"First thing, Mr. Small," Abe went on, "I should like to know where I seen you before. Of course, I know you're running a big business in Walla Walla, Washington, and certainly, too, I know your face."
"Sure you know my face, Abe," Mr. Small replied. "But my name ain't familiar. The last time you seen my face, Abe, was some twenty years since."